The Tale of Krispos (113 page)

His eyes imagined they saw shifting, swirling colored shapes, as if he had shut them and pressed knuckles hard against his eyelids. If any beings phantasmagorical did lurk down here, they could be upon him before he decided they were something more than figments of his imagination. He said the creed under his breath again.

He had gone—well, he didn’t know how far he had gone, but it was a goodly way—when he saw a tiny bit of light that neither shifted nor swirled. It spilled out from under the bottom of a door and faintly illuminated the floor just in front of it. Had the tunnel been lit, he never would have noticed the glow. As things were, it shouted its presence like an imperial herald.

Phostis’ fingers slid across planed boards. After so long scratching over brick, the smoothness was welcome. Whoever was on the other side of the door must have had unusually keen ears, for no sooner had his hand whispered over it than she called, “Enter in friendship, by the lord with the great and good mind.”

He groped for a latch, found it, and lifted it. The door moved smoothly on its hinges. Though but a single lamp burned in the chamber, its glow seemed bright as the noonday sun to his light-starved eyes. What he saw, though, left him wondering if those eyes were playing tricks on him: a lovely young woman bare on a bed, her arms stretched his way in open invitation.

“Enter in friendship,” she repeated, though he was already inside. Her voice was low and throaty. As he took an almost involuntary step toward her, the scent she wore reached him. Had it had a voice, that would have been low and throaty, too.

A second, longer look told him she was not quite bare after all: a thin gold chain girded her slim waist. Its glint in the lamplight made him take another step toward the bed. She smiled and moved a little to make room beside her.

His foot was already uplifted for a third step—which would have been the last one he needed—when he caught himself, almost literally, by the scruff of the neck. He swayed off balance for a moment, but in the end that third step went back rather than ahead.

“You are the test against which Digenis warned me,” he said, and felt himself turn red at how hoarse and eager he sounded.

“Well, what if I am?” The girl’s slow shrug was a marvel to behold. So was the long, slow stretch that followed it. “The holy sir promised me you would be comely, and he told the truth. Do as you will with me; he shall never know, one way or the other.”

“How not?” he demanded, his suspicions aroused now along with his lust. “If I have you here, of course you’ll bear the tale back to the holy sir.”

“By the lord with the great and good mind, I swear I will not,” she said. Her tone carried conviction. He knew he should not believe her, but he did. She smiled, seeing she’d got through to him. “We’re all alone, only the two of us down here. Whatever happens, happens, and no one else will ever be the wiser.”

He thought about that, decided he believed her again. “What’s your name?” he asked. It was not quite a question out of the blue.

The girl seemed to understand that. “Olyvria,” she answered. Her smile grew broader. As if by their own will rather than hers, her legs parted a little.

When Phostis raised his left foot, he did not know whether he would go toward her or away. He turned, took two quick strides out of the chamber, and closed the door behind him. He knew that if he looked on her for even another heartbeat, he would take her.

As he leaned against the bricks of the passageway and tried to find a scrap of his composure, her voice pursued him: “Why do you flee from pleasure?”

Not until she asked him did he fully comprehend the answer. Digenis’ test was marvelous in its simplicity: only his own conscience stood between himself and an act that, however sweet, went square against everything the priest had been telling him. Digenis’ teaching must have had its effect, too: regardless of whether the priest learned what he’d been up to, Phostis knew
he
would always know. Since he found that reason enough to abstain, he supposed he had met the challenge.

Even so, he made as much haste as he could away from that dangerous doorway, although Olyvria did not call to him again. When he looked back to find out whether he could still see the light trickling under the bottom of the door, he discovered he could not. The passage did have a curve to it, then.

A little while later, he came upon another door with a lighted lamp behind it. This time, he tiptoed past as quietly as he could. If anyone in the chamber heard him, she—or perhaps he—gave no sign. Not all tests, Phostis told himself as he pressed ahead, had to be met straight on.

Pitch darkness or no, he could see Olyvria’s lovely body with his mind’s eye. He was sure both his brothers would have enjoyed themselves immensely while failing Digenis’ test. Had he not become dubious of the pleasures of the flesh exactly because they were so easy for him to gain, he might well have failed, too, in spite of all the priest’s inspiring words.

Moving along without light made him realize how very much he depended on his eyes. He could not tell whether he was going uphill or down, left or right. Just when he began to wonder if the passage under the city ran on forever, he saw a faint gleam of light ahead. He hurried toward it. When he pulled aside the curtain that covered the entrance to the tunnel, he found himself back in the temple again.

He stood blinking for a few seconds as he got used to seeing once more. Digenis did not seem to have moved while he was gone. He wondered how long that had been; his sense of time seemed to have been cast into darkness down in the tunnel along with his vision.

Digenis studied him. The priest’s eyes were so sharp and penetrating that Phostis suspected he might have been able to see even in the black night of the underground passage. After a moment, Digenis said, “The man who is truly holy turns aside from no test, but triumphantly surmounts it.”

Quite against his conscious will, Phostis thought of himself triumphantly surmounting Olyvria. Turning his back on the distracting mental image, he answered, “Holy sir, I make no special claim to holiness of my own. I am merely as I am. If I fail to please you, drive me hence.”

“Your father, or rather your acceptance of his will, has already sufficed in that regard. But while not a man destined to be renowned among Phos’ holy elite, you have not done badly, I admit,” Digenis said. That was as near to praise as he was in the habit of coming. Phostis grinned in involuntary relief. The priest added, “I know it is no simple matter for a young man to reject carnality and its delights.”

“That’s true, holy sir.” Only after Phostis had replied did he notice that, this once, Digenis sounded remarkably like his father. His opinion of the priest went down a notch. Why couldn’t old men leave off prating about what young men did or didn’t do? What did they know about it, anyhow? They hadn’t been young since before Videssos was a city, as the saying went.

Digenis said, “May the good god turn his countenance—and his continence—upon you during your wanderings, lad, and may you remember his truths and what you have learned from me in the hour when you will be tested all in earnest.”

“May it be so, holy sir,” Phostis answered, though he didn’t understand just what the priest meant by his last comment. Weren’t his lessons Phos’ truth in and of themselves? He set that aside for later consideration, bowed deeply to Digenis, and walked out of the little temple.

His Haloga guards were down on one knee in the street, shooting dice. They paid off the last bet and got to their feet. “Back to the palaces, young Majesty?” one asked.

“That’s right, Snorri,” Phostis answered. “I have to ready myself to sail west.” He let the northerners escort him out of the unsavory part of the capital. As they turned onto Middle Street, he said, “Tell me, Snorri, how are you better for having your mail shirt gilded?”

The Haloga turned back, puzzlement spread across his blunt features. “Better, young Majesty? I don’t follow the track of your thought.”

“Does the gilding make you fight better? Are you braver on account of it? Does it keep the iron links of the shirt from rusting better than some cheap paint might?”

“None of those, young Majesty.” Snorri’s massive head shook slowly back and forth as if he thought Phostis ought to be able to see that much for himself. In fact, he likely was thinking something of the sort.

Phostis didn’t care. Buoyed by Digenis’ inspiring word and by pride at turning down what Olyvria had so temptingly offered, he had at the moment no use for the material things of the world, for everything which had throughout his life stood between him and hunger, discomfort, and fear. As if fencing with a rapier of logic, he thrust home. “Why have the gilding, then?”

He didn’t know what he’d expected—maybe for Snorri to rush out and buy a jug of turpentine so he could remove the offending pigment from his byrnie. But whether the gilding helped the Haloga or not, he was armored against reasoned argument. He answered, “Why, young Majesty? I like it; I think it’s pretty. That’s plenty for me.”

The rest of the trip to the palaces passed in silence.

L
INES CREAKED AS THEY RAN THROUGH PULLEYS. THE BIG SQUARE
sail swung to catch the breeze from a new angle. Waves slapped against the bow of the
Triumphant
as the imperial flagship turned toward shore.

Krispos knew more than a little relief at the prospect of being on dry land to stay. The voyage west from Videssos the city had been smooth enough; he’d needed to use the lee rail only once. The galleys and transport ships never sailed out of sight of land, and beached themselves every evening. That wasn’t why Krispos looked forward to putting in at Nakoleia.

The trouble was, he’d grown to feel isolated, cut off from the world around him, in his week at sea. No new reports stacked up on his desk. His cabin, in fact, had no desk, only a little folding table. He felt like a healer-priest forced to remove his fingers from a sick man’s wrist in the middle of taking his pulse.

He knew that was foolish. A week was not a long time to be away from events; Anthimos, even while physically remaining in Videssos the city, had neglected his duties for months on end. The bureaucracy kept the Empire more or less on an even keel; that was what bureaucracy was for.

But Krispos would be glad to return to a location more definite than
somewhere on the Videssian Sea.
Once he landed, the lodestone that was the imperial dignity would attract to his person all the minutiae on which he depended for his understanding of what was going on in Videssos.

“You can’t let go, even for a second,” he murmured.

“What’s that, Father?” Katakolon asked.

Embarrassed at getting caught talking to himself, Krispos just grunted by way of reply. Katakolon gave him a quizzical look and walked on by. Katakolon had spent a lot of time pacing the deck of the
Triumphant;
the week at sea was no doubt his longest period of celibacy since his beard began to sprout. He’d likely do his best to make up for lost time in the joy-houses of Nakoleia.

The port was getting close now. Its gray stone wall was drab against the green-gold of ripening grain in the hinterland. Behind it, blue in the distance, hills rose up against the sky. The fertile strip was narrow along the northern coast of the westlands; the plateau country that made up the bulk of the big peninsula began to rise less than twenty miles from the sea.

Katakolon went by again. Krispos didn’t want him, not right now. “Phostis!” he called.

Phostis came, not quite fast enough to suit Krispos, not quite slow enough for him to make an issue out of it. “How may I serve you, Father?” he asked. The question was properly deferential, the tone was not.

Again, Krispos decided to let it lie. He stuck to the purpose for which he’d called his son. “When we dock, I want you to visit all merarchs and officers of higher rank. Remind them they have to take extra care on this campaign because they may have Thanasioi in their ranks. We don’t want to risk betrayal at a time when it could hurt us most.”

“Yes, Father,” Phostis said unenthusiastically. Then he asked, “Why couldn’t you simply have your scribes write out as many copies of the order as you need and distribute them to the officers?”

“Because I just told you to do this, by the good god,” Krispos snapped. Phostis’ glare made him realize that was taking authority too far. He added, “Besides, I have good practical reasons for doing it this way. Officers get too many parchments as is; who but Phos can say which ones they’ll read and which ones they’ll toss into a pigeonhole or into a well without ever unsealing them? But a visit from the Avtokrator’s son—that they’ll remember, and what he says to them. And this is an important order. Do you see?”

“I suppose so,” Phostis said, again without great spirit. But he did nod. “I’ll do as you say, Father.”

“Well, I thank your gracious Majesty for that,” Krispos said. Phostis jerked as if a mosquito had just bitten him in a tender place. He spun round and stalked away. Krispos immediately regretted his sarcasm, but nothing could recall a word once spoken. He’d learned that a long time before, and should have had it down pat by now. He stamped his foot, angry at himself and Phostis both.

He peered out toward the docks. The fleet had come close enough to let him pick out individuals. The fat fellow with six parasol-bearers around him would be Strabonis, the provincial governor, the scrawny one with three, Asdrouvallos, the city eparch. He wondered how long they’d been standing there, waiting for the fleet to arrive. The longer it was, the more ceremony they’d insist on once he actually got his feet on dry land. He intended to endure as much as he could, but sometimes that wasn’t much.

Along with the dignitaries stood a lean, wiry fellow in nondescript clothes and a broad-brimmed leather traveler’s hat. Krispos was much more interested in seeing him than either Strabonis or Asdrouvallos: imperial scouts and couriers had an air about them that, once recognized, was unmistakable. The governor and the eparch would make speeches. From the courier, Krispos would get real news.